


i'm not alright

by CookieMonstersRUs



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Colors, I'm back bitch, M/M, Tender Sex, and, except to say, this time i am not that bitch, usually i'm that bitch that writes a million tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2020-12-20 16:24:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21059651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CookieMonstersRUs/pseuds/CookieMonstersRUs
Summary: It was so much easier to destroy the world when there was nothing good to see in it.





	1. My Sweet Color

**Author's Note:**

> Soulmate AU where the world is in shades of black, white, and gray until you meet your soulmate. BUT, you can also see one of the colors if you fall in love with someone that's not your soulmate.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are gray.

There was a tooth in his mouth. It was stuck between his front teeth and his bottom lip. It wasn’t his tooth. His jaw shifted and the tooth settled onto his tongue, the blood and skin held in the crook of his jaw. He thought he might throw up. He opened his mouth and spit dribbled out, washing the tooth and skin and whatever the fuck else was in his mouth down his chin and to the floor.

There was blood on his jaw and muscle in his hair. One of the bones, splintered now, settled just underneath his shirt collar and threatened to slip under cloth. The room was painted in blood and guts and whatever was left of the man that was once Translucent. The room was gray, black where the guts were. He thought there might be red in the walls, smeared across his skin, dripping onto the floor tiles, but he couldn’t see red, not anymore.

He wanted it to be red, because then there’d be something left of Robin in the world, but there was no red. Not in his mouth, not in his heart, not in the blood on his knuckles. Red was gone. Red was gone the moment a Supe crashed through her. Red crumbled from Hughie with her hands limp in his. 

And now he was here, on this rampage. He wanted the red, wanted to taste bloodlust not actual blood, wanted to feel something that wasn’t the hollow empty place in his chest. He wanted Robin back. He wanted her smile, wanted her laugh, wanted her to be here with him and not buried somewhere, half her body already destroyed. All he had was this mission, this curdling burn inside of him to destroy A-Train and everyone else. All he had left was the gray world. Red was gone.

Butcher and Frenchie found him like that, standing in the middle of the blast-zone. They were saying something to him, but Hughie couldn’t hear them. His ears rang. Butcher growled something at him. Hughie took that to mean go clean up. Frenchie took him by the shoulders and guided him over to the sink. He disappeared and came back with some towels and a chef’s shirt. Frenchie left him with a warm palm to his back.

Hughie stared down at the sink. Blood slipped off his chin and into the sink drain, as if he had a bloody nose. Hughie remembered a time, while he was with Robin, when she’d smacked him in laughter. It had been the middle of winter and they were watching some shitty children’s movie and of course his nose was too dry so when she hit him, his nose bled. He remembered staring down at the bathroom sink, trying to find a roll of toilet paper just out of reach, and looking at the droplets spill into the sink bowl so it wouldn’t stain the counters. The blood had been red, bold red. He remembered it vaguely now, the blood. He had smiled then, because it wasn’t the first time to glimpse the color red and pink with Robin, but it was here now, dark and bold and so full of light.

Robin had told him she could see green because of Hughie. She knew it was green because soulmates always said the sky was blue and the grass was green. Hughie knew he saw red because he saw it on people’s lips, in his blood, where she was most soft for him. Hughie missed red. 

He picked up the hose and turned the water on. The water was lukewarm. It made him shiver. It grazed through his curls, over his ears, down the back of his neck, across his hands, and under his chin. He washed himself the best he could, trying not to think about the blood and teeth and skin and whatever the fuck else going down the drain. Behind him, Butcher and Frenchie spoke to each other in soft tones, the sounds of sweeping and mopping filling the space sine Hughie had nothing to say. All he cared about was that the blood was off him. He shivered when the water’s warmth turned freezing. He took off his shirt, ruined now, and tried to wipe off any else of that shit. 

He turned off the faucet. He watched the gray water swirl down the drain. He knew it was red, even if he couldn’t see it anymore, because of the cloudiness of it. He wondered sometimes what water looked like, what it really looked like. 

Hughie turned around and crossed his arms over his chest. He watched Butcher and Frenchie clean. They’d gotten themselves smocks and gloves. Neither looked at him as they did their work, cleaning up Hughie’s mess. They loaded what was left of Translucent into the garbage. Butcher glanced at Hughie and hesitated for a moment, before going back to sweeping. Butcher probably regretted roping Hughie into this clusterfuck. He’d killed Translucent too soon probably. Hughie wasn’t meant for this work, not really.

Butcher made a sound and Hughie looked up, barely blinking before a shirt was tossed into his arms. A crappy chef’s shirt. It was better than nothing. Hughie was about to thank Butcher, but the man was already back to business. Hughie threaded his arms through the shirt and slid it on, cringing as the fabric itched along his skin. He wanted the warmth and comfort, the familiarity of his own clothes. 

When they seemed closed to done, Hughie pushed himself up from the counter. “I need to go back to my apartment.”

“What? Why?” Frenchie asked.

“No,” was all Butcher said.

“I’m not wearing this stupid fucking--” Hughie yanked at his shirt, eyes clenching. Translucent’s figure, walking away from him, smug as can be, flashed in his mind. Then the explosion. “I need to go back to my apartment.”

“No, you’re not. We’ll get you some clothes.”

“No! I want--” Hughie sighed. “I’m getting my clothes. I’m not bailing.”

“Frenchie, go with him.”

Hughie blinked, surprised. “What? I don’t need an escort!”

“Either Frenchie goes with you, or I’m puttin’ a bullet ‘tween those brows now.” Butcher made a clicking sound, fingers cocked in a gun. “Got me?”

“Fine,” Hughie scowled. Frenchie went ahead. Hughie stomped after him, passing by Butcher without another look. Butcher made a tsking sound and reached out, grabbing him by the shirt. Knuckles grazed the skin at the back of his neck. Hughie shivered, jerked to a stop. Hughie turned around, turning to Butcher. 

His eyes were brown. His lips were pink. His shirt was blue. His hair was brown. Hughie didn’t know the names for these things, only the pinkness, until later. He only knew that there was color here, color in the world. His eyes hurt from it all.

Butcher’s face--Hughie knew he could see the color too--thinned into one hard line. He looked at Hughie, really looked at Hughie for the first time after touching him for the first time. His eyes held anger, despair, and something else, something neither of them wanted to consider, wanted to see, wanted to understand. 

Butcher cleared his throat. “Be careful, yeah?”

Hughie jerked his head in a single nod. He didn’t speak. He couldn’t speak. He didn’t know how. He didn’t want to know how. He didn’t want any of this. All he wanted was the red.


	2. They Don't Talk About It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hughie makes a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter, these don't plan to be so long.
> 
> I'm thinking five chapters total!

They don’t talk about it. Of course they don’t talk about it. Hughie knows nothing about Butcher, not really, but Butcher acts like he knows everything about Hughie. He looks at Hughie sometimes, in the middle of an operation, when the color of the world is too fucking much, and Hughie thinks Butcher knows every inch of his soul, knows exactly how Hughie ticks. And Hughie knows nothing about him.

Thinking Butcher is his soulmate makes him sick. Hughie doesn’t want to be soulmates with a murderer. Hughie doesn’t want to be a murderer. It was destiny then, for Hughie to kill, for Butcher to kill, for them to both lose everything. They were always on this path for destruction. There was only one way this fucking mess ended and it was with them dead on the ground or blown to pieces. And Hughie didn’t want that. He wanted to avenge Robin, he wanted to make A-Train pay, and he wanted to live. He didn’t want to die, not for anything, and especially not for Butcher, not for that cold-hearted bitch, that psychopath.

But there were moments, even before their skin touched and the world was full of color, where Butcher softened towards him. He empathized with Hughie, about their loss. He gave Hughie his morning coffee. He smiled when Hughie said something dorky. There was…Hughie hated to call it warmth, but it was there. Softness was in the man. Hughie couldn’t ignore that.

It felt like, as they stood in the chaos of Supes and death and color, that their resolves were brittle eggshells and if either one pressed against the other, offered a sweetness, offered to hold the other, they’d crumble, and any of their anger, any of their revenge, would be gone. And neither of them wanted that.

So they didn’t talk to each other about it.

They talked about the job, they talked about the Supes, and they talked about Frenchie and MM, who were beginning to suspect that there was something different about the two of them. Frenchie divulged, once the female joined their little group, that he could see purple. MM could see the spectrum and Hughie watched Butcher catch himself from saying what colors he saw. They didn’t want to give themselves away, it would be too suspicious.

But color was too much. It made his eyes burn. They were so bright and they were a reminder or what he’d lost and what he could never have with Robin. Hughie found himself wearing sunglasses as much as possible, trying to dull the color.

There was only one thing Butcher said about the matter. He had pulled Hughie close before one meeting, face drawn and serious. Hughie had no idea what to think, only felt the panic and anxiety, knowing before Butcher said it, that they were going to talk about  _ it _ . “Make sure no Supe ever finds out,” Butcher warned. “They’ll do anything to find your soul and tear it to pieces.”

“But you’re my--”

“I know.” Butcher looked down at where his hand was fisted in Hughie’s shirt. His fist unclenched and he let go. “Don’t let them catch you.”

“I…” Hughie coughed. “I won’t let them.”

Butcher nodded. “Good.”


	3. Take-Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! Sorry for the haitus, was distracted by school and then the holidays.

They sat alone at the table. Cold take-out spread between them. Frenchie and MM had gone off to wherever bed was. The light was low. Butcher’s shirt was off. Hughie’s hands shook. He held the needle and the thread. Butcher’s skin was tan. Warm. Flushed. Red and gritty with blood. A bullet had grazed the skin and left him all red. Hughie’s fingers were smeared with the little blood. Antiseptic stung the air. Hughie had swiped his arm before he’d gotten the needle, but Butcher’s arm still bled. The man was quiet, but he was watching him. Hughie couldn’t look at him. It felt too much. The color was too much. Red. Fuck.

Fucking red.

“Get on with it, Hughie,” Butcher groused. The man picked up his beer and took a swig of it. “‘m not a fucking twat.”

“This’ll sting,” Hughie warned him.

“I know. I’ve done this before.”

Of course he had. Hughie let out a shaky breath. The needle slid through skin. Butcher barely twitched. Hugie did it again. He stitched him back together.

“How long have you been doing this shit?” he asked.

Butcher shrugged. “As long as I needed to.”

“Mesmer mentioned a wife?”

“Don’t listen to that fucker. He’s dead now.”

“You killed him,” Hughie reminded him, tsking. He pulled tight on the bloody string. Butcher hissed and glared at him.

“Oh fuck off.”

“So it’s true then?”

Butcher rolled his eyes. “Fuck, fine! Yeah, it’s fuckin’ true.”

Hughie settled. “What’s she like?”

Butcher cocked his head to the side. “You really wanna know that?”

Hughie shrugged. “Just trying to understand you.”

“Yeah? Well don’t. It doesn’t fuckin’ matter.”

“Of course it matters, you have a wife. You clearly love her.” Hughie finished with the thread, tying it off. “I’m not gonna be a homewrecker.”

“Homewrecker?” Butcher scoffed.

Hughie dabbed Butcher’s skin with the cloth again, then wiped his hands free of the blood. Rid of the red. Hughie still wasn’t looking at him. “Yeah…” Hughie slid back into his seat.

“Hughie, she’s fuckin’ dead.”

Hughie looked up. “What?”

“You think I’d be doin’ all this shit if she was still alive?”

“What? I don’t know--what happened?”

Butcher pinched the bridge of his nose, hunched over the table. “Homelander fuckin’ lazered her to bits right in front of me.”

“Why?”

“Fuck, Hughie, why you gotta ask?” Butcher cursed. He shook his head, took a deep breath, and let his shoulders fall. “‘Cause he’s fuckin’ Supe-cunt and we were close to takin’ him down.”

“Shit, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah well those bastards both took someone we loved from us didn’t they?” Butcher scoffed. “And we’re gonna make them pay. All of ‘em.”

“I only care about A-Train.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah, I’m not like you.”

Butcher scoffed. “I saw you with Translucent, Hughie. You’re just like me. You can kid yourself all you want, but you’re a bastard, Hughie. Just like me.”

Hughie rubbed his face with his hands. “No. I’m not.”

“You are. The sooner you fucking accept it, the better.” Butcher drank some more of his beer, leaned back in the chair, and watched Hughie over the rim of his bottle.

Hughie looked at him. The air felt brittle to Hughie. Like there’d been a knife in his gut and Butcher had pulled out to read the blood on the blade. Hughie unwound and ached, bristled and relaxed. Every time he spoke with Butcher like this he wanted to struggle and take a nap at the same time.

“I don’t want this life,” Hughie told him.

“It’s the one we got.”

“No.” Hughie cleared his throat. “It’s the one we have right now. I know it could be better. It was better.”

“The life you knew is gone now, Hughie.”

He didn’t want to, but he reached out and touched Butcher’s hand anyway, the one laying on the table. He held his hand dug his fingers into his palm, touching his wrist briefly, feeling the flesh and warmth and color. “There’s color.” Hughie’s voice broke on that word, that damned color. “There’s so much more than we ever knew.”

“Hughie…” Butcher allowed the contact. His fingers twitched as if he wanted to touch Hughie too, but couldn’t allow himself to. “This can’t mean anything.”

“But it does.” Hughie swallowed air and guilt. Regret and temptation and agony and life went down his throat like cough medicine. It made him numb. “Trust me. I didn’t want it to.”

“‘Didn’t’?” Butcher’s voice was quiet. He was no longer looking at Hughie. Hughie looked down at his lap as well.

“One day it’ll be over and maybe there will be something...for us. Who knows.”

“Revenge is never fucking over.”

“It has to be.” Hughie pressed into Butcher’s hand, feeling his alive-ness. “For me. For us.”

Butcher was quiet for a moment. More than a moment. Hughie still couldn’t look at him, yet knew Butcher was taking him in. Seeing him, perhaps for the first time. “You know,” Butcher broke, “it was so much easier to destroy the world, destroy every-fucking-thing when there was nothing left to see.”

But then there was color.

Hughie nodded. “I never wanted to see again after losing her,” Hughie admitted.

“I’ll drink to that.”

“But there is more to see.” It was a truth, a bright hopeful seed that somehow lived buried in the black and gray thicket of Hughie’s world: color meant it was all worth something. Even if they weren’t ready for another decade, another lifetime, it was worth it to know the color. “It’s worth it to see.”

It’s worth it to love. Left unspoken.

Hughie pulled his hand away and stood up. Butcher watched him go. Hughie looked him in the eye, in those brown eyes. He’d never get over that color. In the dim glow of the evening and single light. Under the grime and horror, there were brown eyes. Hughie would always remember this moment. “Goodnight, Butcher.”

“Goodnight.” Butcher said. The “Hughie” was whispered as he walked away, as Hughie stepped into the dark and let this moment come to a close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I disappeared for a while there, so much has happened. I meant to finish writing “fuck, i'm thankful” for thanksgiving but then there was no water at my house for the entirety of break. when I say no water, I MEAN no water. also after break came finals. imma break it down over here in “i'm no alright” because guess what? IM NOT OKAY RN!!! If anyone wants to know the sordid details? feel free to ask because my life has basically turned into a 400k pining fanfic so whAtEveR. that being said, i physically am unable to write the happy factor of “fuck, i’m thankful” because i'm oof rn so I’ll write more angsty soulmate au!!! ‘~’
> 
> and yet? somehow my fucking BLEEDING heart wrote something tender ??? don't know what the fuck THAT's all about oof


	4. Fry-By

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rough day at the office.

If Hughie was honest with himself, he’d admit that it was always going to lead to this: tied to a chair on the third floor of an abandoned building with a bomb strapped to his junk. Well, he didn’t know the specifics, but the gist was the same. Hughie was fucked.

A-Train snatched him after their last gunfight. Two kicks to the groin, a smack at his left ear, and a taser to the neck, and Hughie was gone. He woke up groggy but alive. He was surprised to be alive.

He didn’t know what happened to the others, but he at least knew Butcher was okay. He could still see the green label of the Mountain Dew bottle crushed on the floor along with some Coke cans. So Butcher _might_ still be alive. For some people, losing a loved one didn’t immediately erase color. Although, the next time Butcher saw him, he might be gray.

The chair they’d tied him to was one of those swivel chairs from an office building. The padding was ripped and one of the arms were permanently stuck on the lowest setting while the other was much higher. Worst of all, the chair was missing one of its wheels and was being held down by a cement block that was also tied to his ankles. It was only when he tried to shift around in his chair, to stretch after being forcibly asleep, did the weight of the bomb press heavily on his crotch.

He figured it was some sort of karma for having shoved a bomb up Translucent’s ass. Something about having C4 pressing heavy against his cock and balls really forced a perspective didn’t it.

A-Train sat in front of him, three feet away, on top of a filing cabinet. A-Train’s stupid goggles were cracked across the lenses. Half his suit was torn and bloody, but Hughie wasn’t sure who’s blood it was. A-Train wasn’t looking at him, no, he was too busy rubbing his hands over his ears, the top of his head, the corners of his lips. Anxious. Upset, probably tired. What did this fucking bastard have to be upset about? 

They were in a gutted office space. Grey carpet torn. Yellow-stained windows with the blinds haphazardly lowered. There were only two desks in the entire place, both smashed to pieces, and a couple filing cabinets gutted of any valuables. Hughie was on the only swivel chair. The place smelled like rats and piss. It looked like gray. Gray people worked in this gray place. All that was left was the scattered trash.

And sitting right in his lap was a bomb. Well, two bombs, both small. One had a set of green wires. The other had red.

“Even if that Brit-dick gets one, he won’t get the other,” A-Train sneered. His voice was strange: hollow, surprisingly feral. Hughie was going to ask A-Train how he set it, but then he remembered. A-Train had a soulmate: Popclaw. Man, Hughie was forgetting all sorts of stuff this morning. Afternoon. Whatever. “You’ve fucked with me too long, bitch-boy, but you’re not getting out of this one alive.”

Right, no one knew Hughie could see color. If he hadn’t found his soul, he’d only see the gray, maybe one of the colors but not the other. He’d die from the explosion. If he made it out, they’d know he had a soulmate then they’d find and kill his soulmate. Either way, Hughie was fucked.

“Why didn’t you just kill me?” Hughie asked. “Back at the shoot-out?”

“You don’t deserve any easy out after that stunt you pulled back there. You almost killed Popclaw.”

Ah. Hughie remembered now. Why A-Train was so upset. “I did kill Popclaw.”

A-Train was suddenly in front of Hughie, slamming his fists into him. Over and over. He wasn’t even speeding as he did it, just pummeling Hughie so he could feel every crunch of skin and bone. When A-Train pulled back he spat at Hughie.

“She’s not fucking dead!”

Blood dribbled out of his mouth, he could feel the red goop. Blood and salivia and metallic and fear, spilled out of Hughie as he stared blearily up at A-Train.

Hughie did kill Popclaw.

He hadn’t gone into the fight intending to kill her, but Popclaw had him pinned to a bleacher and there was nothing for him to do than shove her claws into her own gut. He would never be able to forget the sight of her stomach slipping out or the broken sound she made as she fell on top of him. Then Butcher had shot her in the head, to give her some mercy in death. Butcher could be weird about mercy and justice and revenge and whatever. Butcher was weird.

Hughie wanted Butcher, needed him to get here fast.

“She’s not dead,” A-Train repeated, rather hysterically.

She could still be alive. Vought had all sorts of medical technology. She could’ve survived, but Hughie doubted it. But A-Train could see color to set the bombs. Then again, you had to know you’re soulmate was dead to not see color, had to believe it. That’s why Hughie couldn’t trust his own eyes. He couldn’t believe anything until he saw Butcher.

“When Butcher gets here, I’m going to finish that fucker for once and all. I’m not dealing with this vendetta crap anymore." A-Train smacked the back of Hughie’s head as if it was his fault. It sort of was. “Popclaw could’ve been hurt.”

“What makes you think Butcher’s coming?” Hughie asked. “This is clearly a trap.”

“Butch doesn’t leave his own,” A-Train reminded him. “He’ll always come.”

A-Train was right. Butcher always came back for them, even if it meant storming compounds, exposing foreign governments, or losing appendages (Frenchie still hadn’t gotten over the loss of his pinkie from their last hostage situation.) They were a team. Even if Butcher was a right bastard, that was the one thing that mattered more than anything else. If the others came, it’d be a bloodshed.

“It’d be stupid for him to come,” Hughie said. “Butcher killed your girlfriend.”

“SHE’S NOT DEAD!” A-Train roared.

A-Train punched Hughie again and this time he lost his vision.

* * *

Things got a little hazy after that.

Blood dried on his skin, a disgusting metallic tang under the dip of his chin. A-Train must’ve gotten him in the nose too because he could feel it dry above his lip. He wanted to sneeze. His tongue slipped out and tried to wipe it away, but his tongue wasn’t working so well and he just blinked at the wall in front of him. He didn’t know where A-Train was, he’d disappeared a while ago.

Sweat pooled at the back of his ears, flushed and aching. There was a sound _paw-paw-pop _that made his ears crinkled. It was like having a sinus infection and your ears clogged or getting water stuck in your ear after going to the pool, but he couldn’t do a damn thing to scratch or smack at his ears. His hands fidgeted where they were and he wanted to itch so bad but couldn't. His hair was greasy and he could feel a tickle on his forehead. Torture, this was what torture was. Getting the shit beaten out of you was one thing, not being able to scratch a tickle was another.

There was noise around him, loud, but Hughie faded in and out of consciousness.

He was thinking about the last time he’d eaten a gyro. It had been a couple months. There was a guy down the corner from his old job that did Greek food. He could still remember the crinkle of the aluminum foil around his pita. It was thinner foil than the kind you got at markets. He wondered where people got that kind of foil. Under the foil was warm bread wrapped around shaved lamb, day old lettuce, ripe tomatoes, raw onion, and a fountain of tzatziki sauce. Fucking delicious. It was the heat of that gyro, more than anything, that had made it so delicious. Plus, there were the fries. Those delicious fucks could be cold within five minutes, but those precious moments before it turned to lard was the closest thing to heaven on earth. Hughie liked to dip those fries in the tzatski and get drunk off it. He could go for some fries right now.

He tried shifting in the seat. His legs were cramping and he wanted to get up and stretch, but every time he even twitched his hips, he became distinctly aware of the bomb pressed heavy against his junk. Hughie didn’t want to die prematurely or anything like that just because his legs were getting a little tingly. 

His chair was suddenly tilted over to the side—_ouch—_in a flash of bright blue and now he was laying on the ground with a bomb strapped to him and his eyes going in and out of focus. He could see the vague forms of several figures in the office space, shouting, and a lot of color. The gray room painted red. When did that happen?

Hughie told himself to concentrate and it too was a lot of effort, but his eyes started to focus on those in the room. Hughie was surprised to see MM fuckin’ _destroying _a dude in black. MM was shoving a knife over and over into the dude’s eye socket. Looked like A-Train had some friends. Most of them were on the ground with their throats shot out or their guts torn to shreds._ Oof_. Rough day at the office. Hughie spotted Frenchie next, then Kimiko, until finally his eyes landed on the familiar form of Butcher.

Hughie was so happy he could see color.

Then he realized Butcher was trying to wrangle in A-Train and Hughie’s glee turned to fear. Hughie didn’t doubt Butcher for a second, but he also didn’t doubt A-Train. That sleaze-ball always had a plan up his sleeve. But MM and Kimiko had demolished the rest of A-Train’s friends and now Frenchie was coming up behind A-Train with a taser. Hughie didn’t understand why Butcher hadn’t just shot A-Train in the foot or face or something.

Frenhie tasered the shit out of A-Train until the fucker was slumped on the ground. _This is for Robin_, Hughie thought. A startled laugh bubbled from his lips as Butcher kicked the shit out of A-Train.

Hughie watched more of the scene, but then his chair was being lifted from the ground and wow, head-rush, Hughie didn’t want to be alive anymore. He settled back in the chair and came face to face with MM.

“Milkie,” Hughie grinned. MM scowled at the nickname.

“Shut the fuck up, cracker boy.” That’s how Hughie knew MM loved him.

“Bomb,” Hughie told him. MM looked him over. “A-Train strapped a bomb to my dick.”

“Two bombs,” Frenchie observed, joining them.

Butcher and Kimiko came over too. Kimiko didn’t say anything, but Butcher started cursing in normal Butcher fashion. He looked scared shitless though, which was not in normal Butcher fashion. “I’m gonna fucking castrate the fuckin’ cunt and then shove his dick up his own arse until he can’t fuckin’ walk no more because every time that fuck does, he’ll fucking cum his pants like the fucking shithead he is.” Hughie wasn’t sure if his brain was damaged because he couldn’t understand an inch of what Butcher just said. It was very colorful though. Red, even.

“Calm down, Butch,” MM said. “I can get him out of this.” Right, MM could see color. Like them. Frenchie pulled out a toolkit from his ass and gave it to MM. “Y’all should leave now in case this doesn’t work.”

As much as getting blown up sucked, getting blown up with a friend sounded kind of nice.

Butcher was watching him. “Go on, French, Kimiko.”

Frenchie brushed his fingers along Hughie’s shoulders, murmuring, “See you, my friend.” Kimiko bowed her head at him. Hughie smiled at them and returned the favor. The two left, glancing at Butcher when he didn’t follow.

“You should go too,” MM said when Butcher didn’t move. Hughie watched him, really took in his face at that moment. He jaw was tight. His eyes heavy and already looking like they’d lost the war.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Butcher growled.

“Billie,” MM looked at him, “they need you out there, you need to live.”

“I’m not fucking leaving him!” Bille crossed his arms and glared at his friend. “Now are you gonna fucking disable the bomb or not?”

MM looked between them. He was trying to figure out what was going on, because clearly something was, but Butcher’s faced betrayed nothing. Or maybe everything. Hughie’s face betrayed something, because he couldn’t help the way his shoulders relaxed at the affirmation that Butcher was _here_. Hughie didn’t mind dying so much (of course he did) if he got to spend a couple more moments looking at Butcher’s brown eyes and his shitty tropical shirts. He loved those fucking shirts. 

MM got to work. It was strange having MM handling his junk, especially with Butcher in the room, but at least MM knew what he was doing. Slowly, one bomb was disabled, and then another. Hughie sighed when he could finally shift in the shitty chair, and they helped him get out of that death trap.

Hughie’s head felt clearer than it did earlier. He thought once he was alive and free, there’d be some sort of celebratory remarks or maybe some kissing, Hughie wasn’t particularly choosy in these trying times or his loopy mental state, but there wasn’t anything fun like that. Butcher helped him stand and MM contemplated the two of them from a distance. Then their attention turned to A-Train.

“What do you wanna do about him, boss?” MM asked.

Butcher glanced at Hughie, “I think boy-wonder over here should decide. A-Train’s his mark after all.”

Hughie was staring at A-Train’s prone form. Contemplating. He was tired. And out of it. His limbs were heavy with exhaustion. And he was hungry. And he could smell the leather of Butcher’s jacket and he could still see _color_. And it was bright, the color, but it was better than gray. Hughie wouldn’t go back to gray after tasting it. No one should have to go back to that.

“Hughie?” Butcher asked, nudging him slightly.

“Hm?” He looked at Butcher’s brown, oh so brown, eyes.

“You want to shoot him in the fucking head now or strap him up to a bomb and serve some karmic fucking justice?”

“I don’t want to kill him,” Hughie admitted, because it was true. He didn’t want to kill. It was never about the killing, but getting back at Robin’s killer, giving her justice. Justice was a weird and unattainable goal. Blood wasn’t justice. But, “I want to pretend I’m nothing like him.” Hughie looked at Butcher, “But he deserves it.”

“That he does.”

The sound of the explosion was sweet, but an empty kind, like eating a fry five minutes past its due.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BUONGIORNO!
> 
> I hope everyone is being safe in quarantine and looking forward to the adventures of color during these gray times. Sorry I've been out of commission for a while. Returning to this fic was sort of like trying to return to a time before a heartbreak I went through, but I've gotten to a place where I'm good with writing I'm Not Alright. I'm not sure when I'll be able to go back to the fuck, i series, but perhaps during the summer or when we get a season two. (Probably sooner.)  
Next chapter is probably the last chapter, and I won't be able to write it until after exams finish, so I'll see y'all on the flip-side!
> 
> Stay safe, eat well, and keep reading fanfic. XOXOXO


	5. Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftermath and new endings.

The tiles were tan. They used to be white, Hughie thought, a long time ago. But in motels like these, nothing stayed pristine for long. Hughie could track the lines of the shower wall, count each three-by-three tile until his eyes bleed, but it wouldn’t make him feel better.

His own blood swirled down the drain. Red. What a fucking color. Red in the raspberry tarts from the bakery near his dad’s place. Red in brick walls of New York City. Red in Robin’s cheeks. Red in the Christmas commercials. Red in the scars that marred Butcher’s skin. Red in the blood and red in the sound of the red. Red wires strung to him. Red inside of him, red slipping out. Red everywhere. Fucking red everywhere.

Hughie closed his eyes and breathed. Black, muted by the light of the bathroom. Black was safer, closer to gray. Gray was familiar. 

Hughie was glad he wasn’t gray.

He sighed and opened his eyes again. A hand, shaky because he was crashing now, came up to wipe the blood off his jaw. He stared at his own hand and thought about blood and how you could never escape it when it turned sour. He also thought about how this was his blood and his blood only. He paid for his blood and now he was free.

Hughie picked up the bar of complimentary soap. He struggled with the plastic covering, but ripped it apart. The plastic crumbled at the rusted drain. Hughie took the yellow-ish square and started rubbing along his shoulders and chest. Then his neck and his ears. He needed to be clean. He scraped the soap everywhere he could. Then he pulled the mini shampoo bottle and poured some on his hands. He lathered his hair, fingers curling through the strands, scratching at his scalp, searching for any debris or whatever stuck to his skull. A gray-brown puddle pooled at his feet before swirling down the drain. He conditioned his hair the same way.

And then he stood there, under the hot spray. Motel showers were never this warm and maybe this one wasn’t any different, but it was exactly what Hughie needed. The left side of his neck was tight from stress, the span of his shoulder blades aching when he moved, and his stomach pinching itself in hunger. His fingers carefully swiped at the mess of his face. Blood, diluted with water, dribbled down his wrists. He scrubbed his hand across his jaw, mouth, and chin. He didn’t like how his left cheekbone felt, dented and more than a dull bruise. The worst was his busted nose. Frenchie had re-set it in the car, but he didn’t want to even wrinkle his nose for the next couple of days with how tender it was. He hissed when he touched it now.

He turned to face the shower head, letting the droplets skim down his face. Water had a way of being powerful. When he first gained color, he thought all water would be blue, but almost none of it was. Blue was a nice color. Hughie didn’t realize his eyes were blue. It suited him.

When the water left the warm stage to the lukewarm agony, Hughie shut off the water and stepped out. He stood in the bathroom, wet puddles at his feet, and he tensed when he stepped outside and into the main bed area.

Butcher sat at the corner of the one bed, TV low and turned to the news. Vought was on, but news of their stint hadn’t broken yet. Butcher saw him and turned it off. He wasn’t wearing his leather jacket anymore and his shoes were kicked off somewhere. He stood up.

“Look at you, you’re fucking freezin,” Butcher said. Hughie hadn’t realized he was shivering until then. He hadn’t noticed how tight his jaw was trying to clench against the chill. It was late April. Hughie shouldn’t have been that cold, but he was.

Butcher grabbed another towel from the bathroom and rubbed it around Hughie’s shoulders, his back, his chest, quick rubs to bring heat to his skin, and then he trailed the towel up to Hughie’s nape and went further, covering his head with it. He slumped over. Butcher rubbed the towel through his hair, slow and gentle. Hughie sighed with the feel of it. Or with the feel of Butcher right next to him. Both were nice.

When Butcher was done, they stood close to one another. Hughie wasn’t quite looking at Butcher, instead staring at his shoulder and the hole in his Hawaiian shirt. An old bullet wound. Butcher was watching him, but Hughie wasn’t sure what for. The man cleared his throat. 

“You should get in the bed, Hughie.” Butcher gestured time the pillows where there was a pile of clothes. “We brought that for you. MM and I are in the other room. Frenchie’s with Kimiko.”

“Are you leaving?” he asked even though he knew the answer. This was a one bed kind of room.

“Yes.”

“Could you stay?” Hughie’s voice was small, absent. It sounded gray to his own ears. 

Butcher was quiet for a long moment. 

Finally Hughie got the nerve to look up at him. Brown. Brown eyes and brown beard and brown hair. Pink, tannish skin. Pink, tannish lips. Pink scars along his cheek. Purple bruises under the eyes. Butcher was full of color. “Please?”

Butcher swallowed. Then nodded. “Get in the bed.” Hughie agreed, stepping away. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

He walked into the bathroom and shut the door.

Hughie stared at it for a moment, but then he heard the sound of the shower turn on and Hughie looked away. He moved to the bed, wet feet dragging along the cream carpet. The blankets were those awful patterned ones that sort of looked like barf. Even when Hughie lived in gray, he knew those blankets had a blurry pattern. Still, under the outer sheet was a thick yellow comforter, which would be perfect for winter but in April, would have Hughie kicking it off in the middle of the night from overheating. With Butcher by his side, he was looking forward to it.

Hughie looked through the clothes Butcher had brought him. He didn’t want to think about who’s underwear he had, but he was grateful for the pair regardless. He put them on and a worn black shirt that could’ve been MM’s or just as easily Butcher’s. He toweled at his hair some more as he went over to the door, locked it, and turned off the main light. He turned on the bed lamp and got into bed, trying to settle in.

His muscles tried to relax on the bed, but he could feel them aching in his lower back, the dull press of his spine, and the knots at the base of his neck. The worse was the space around his mid back, tender and tight and achy all at once. He tried shifting around on the bed to help loosen it, but bright streaks flashed across his spine in pain, like someone touching his broken nose suddenly, and Hughie flopped back into bed. He pulled the covers up more around his shoulders and stared at the brown spots on the ceiling. 

Alive, he reminded himself, he was alive.

The shower turned off. He kept his eyes firmly on the ceiling. Butcher was probably getting out of the shower. Hughie had to restrain himself. He kept his eyes firmly on the ceiling. He wanted to look at the bathroom door. He didn’t want to be creepy. He kept his eyes firmly on the ceiling.

Butcher came out soon after, toweling at his hair in one hand and carrying his pile of clothing. Hughie glanced, just for a moment, at Butcher in nothing but his black boxers. And then he stared at the ceiling and had to force himself to relax. He wasn’t nervous. Everything felt sore and tender. And Butcher’s presence was a wisp of anticipation, threaded between them like a spiderweb and begging to be tugged.

Hughie knew Butcher had been different in the warehouse. Hughie wasn’t sure what it meant, wasn’t sure if they were ready to slide into the place they both knew they were heading for, but if they weren’t willing to be vulnerable with their own soul, than who could they be open with? 

The other side of the bed dipped as Butcher slid under the covers. Hughie listened to him settle his weight, felt the bed shift and the warmth spread between them. Hughie reached over and turned off the bed light, leaving them in darkness save the strand of yellow from the bathroom . Butcher let out a sigh. Hughie felt himself quiver with the knowing. Knowing Butcher was there, knowing that he was alive, knowing color in the light. It trembled across his skin like a stone skipping across a pond.

Hughie swallowed, eyes fixed to the ceiling and the stray light that came from the billboards outside, and then he turned his head to face Butcher.

Butcher’a head was tilted his way, already looking at Hughie with hooded eyes. There was a resignation in his face, or maybe it was closer to acceptance. Butcher didn’t hate himself in this moment. Hughie always knew that what was stopping them from this was less them hating each other and more them hating themselves. Butcher had had a much longer time to self-annihilate than Hughie, so it would take him longer to admit to things, to admit to how the color was. Hughie understood this, understood his own hatred and tiredness and color. Fucking, red.

Hughie’s hand traveled slowly under the covers, across the space of the bed, to brush against the edge of Butcher. He had no idea what he was touching, but it was Butcher and that was enough.

Butcher tensed. He snatched Hughie’s wrist in a tight grip in an instant. And in the next moment, his hold loosened and his fingers, rough and warm, slid down Hughie’s wrist and palm and laced with Hughie’s fingers so that they were now holding hands. Almost nothing betrayed on Butcher’s face except for the hint of fear in his eyes. Billy Butcher was not a man that feared things.

Hughie pulled himself closer to the middle of the bed. He felt Butcher shift closer as well. He laid on his side even though it hurt to do so. They were still holding hands. They were still staring at each other. Sizing the other up. Calculating. Wondering. Fearing.

Hughie opened his mouth and whispered, “Butcher...”

The man raised a brow. “Yeah, Hughie?” He didn’t say anything rude like ‘Why the fuck are we whispering like little girls at a sleepover?’ or ‘Are we the type of poofers that hold hands then?’ which seemed like a sign, but of what, Hughie wasn’t so sure.

“Do you still want to destroy the world?” he asked. Because they had had this conversation before. Butcher looked away briefly, like he couldn’t handle the sight of him, and then looked at Hughie again. 

“Sometimes,” Butcher admitted.

“Do you want me?” Hughie asked because this is what this was about. 

Butcher’s voice strangled on itself. He did not answer.

Hughie asked him again.

“Why?” Butcher asked, pretending like they weren’t holding hands underneath the bed covers, pretending like they weren’t sharing a bed, pretending like they couldn’t see color. “Do you want me?”

“Yes,” Hughie answered simply, even though this was anything but.

Butcher‘s mouth slackened. “What?”

“I want you. Do you think the world is still worth burning?” Do you think there is something worth living for? Do you think color is worth it? Am I worth it? 

“I...” Butcher struggled with words, hand squeezing tight on his. Sweat built between their palms. It felt like orange. 

What did Hughie feel in the moments before Butcher answered him? Mostly he felt like a mottled bruise on the knee. He felt purple and dusky yellow. He felt rubbed raw and in need of some aloe. He itched for that soothing burn. More than anything, Hughie was tired, feeling the blueness settle over his shoulders, his spine, the low ache of his eyes. “How can you ask me that?”

“Because I finished what I started,” Hughie said, referring to A-Train. “I don’t have a reason to stay.”

Butcher’s jaw clenched. “What about the Seven and Vought? The boys? You’d leave us? After we fuckin’ saved you?”

Hughie sighed, pulling away to lay on his back. Butcher wouldn’t let him. Pulled Hughie closer until there was barely any space between them. 

“Don’t fucking walk away from us, Hughie,” Butcher growled, but it felt more like a plea.

“Why should I stay?” Hughie asked, looking him in the eye. Hughie wasn’t afraid of him. “Give me a reason to stay.”

“I--” Butcher looked down at the space between them, at the darkness of the covers. “You were caught,” he said as if that meant anything. “I told you not get caught. I can’t fucking lose you, Hughie, not anymore than I already have.” 

Hughie slid their legs together, his gut melting with the sound of Butcher’s words, brought his face even closer to his. “We have to stop one day, there needs to be an end. I can’t lose you to the gray, okay?” Butcher nodded, slowly. “I don’t care if it’s when you get Homelander or when Raynor gets a team. I won’t sacrifice all my happiness for those Supe fuckers, okay?” Hughie tightened his grip on Butcher’s hands. “I want to fall in love with you Billy, and I want you to fall in love with me.”

“I’m already--” Butcher struggled with himself. “I--” Hughie was okay that Butcher couldn’t say it. Honestly, there was more than enough time for them, if Butcher made the space for it. Hughie could wait a year or ten, as long as they were each other’s in the end.

“Promise me there is something worth it in the world.”

Butcher nodded. “There’s color.” Relief rushed through Hughie, settled in his bones. “And there’s blue,” Butcher added with a wry grin.

Hughie blinked. Blue? Butcher was staring at him, a warm hand coming up to hold his cheek softly. Oh.  _ Blue _ . 

Hughie leaned forward and kissed him. His entire face hurt from the press of skin and bone and whatever, but they were kissing and Hughie felt a rush of something like a magenta curdle low in his gut as Butcher wrapped an arm around Hughie’s back and pulled him even closer. He could feel the warmth of his chest, still hot and slightly damp from the shower, press into Hughie’s well-worn shirt. Their hair, both still wet, slipped between fingers as Butcher kissed him. Hughie felt his thoughts and worries slip into something warm and distant. All he knew was sensation, the way his body ached and burned.

Butcher rolled them onto Hughie’s back, hovering over him. The blanket settled low on Butcher’s shoulders and Hughie shivered from the chill that slipped over him and then hummed when Butcher rested himself closer to him, trapping the warmth between them. Hughie jolted when Butcher’s hips bumped against his, when their crotches rubbed along the other. Butcher’s rumbled between them, Hughie felt it sear through him like orange, starting to get hard. He felt weak in this moment, weighed to the bed, and jittery by the warmth of it.

Butcher’s nose brushed against his and Hughie hissed, pulling away from their kiss.

“Sorry,” Butcher murmured, pressing butterfly kisses to his jaw, also aching.

“I’m sore everywhere,” Hughie admitted with burning cheeks. Butcher palm laid heavy on his hip, thumb teasing at his boxers. “I don’t know how much I’ll be able to do.”

“We don’t have to do this,” Butcher said kindly, raising his hips up and away from Hughie.

Hughie jerked at the loss, the sudden ache between his legs. “No!” Hughie quickly pulled Butcher back down, rubbing their cocks together through the cloth, making them groan. “I want--” Butcher kissed Hughie again, pressing him into the sheets and rolling himself against Hughie. Butcher reached down and pulled Hughie’s hand between them, getting Hughie to touch him through his boxers. Butcher’s hand slipped into Hughie’s boxers and wrapped around his dick at the same time as he bit at Hughie’s bottom lip. Hughie gasped sharply, breaking their kiss. “Fuck--like that, fuck--”

“Eager are we?” Butcher chuckled. His thumb rubbed at the crown of Hughie’s cock, brushing over the slit.

“Billy!”

“Just like that,” he murmured. 

Hughie panted against the bed sheets, turning to goo. Butcher jerked him off dryly and then wrapped a wet hand around him, setting a fast pace. It was almost painful with how Butcher was jerking him off. He liked it, but… Hughie rubbed his fingers along the tender line of Butcher’s stomach, felt it quiver beneath him, and then dipped his fingers under the waistband to touch Butcher too. Butcher’s cock was thicker than his, heavy and hot in his hands. Hughie’s fingers trailed along the shaft of it, thumb pressing along the vein of it. Butcher’s hips stuttered as did his movements around Hughie’s dick. The two of them slowed their motions, trying to bask in the touch now with how lazy their kissing became. Hughie felt Butcher melt into him. The painful glint to their earlier handling settled into something sweeter, more tender.

Both their wrists were getting tangled in each other’s shorts and Hughie groaned when Butcher let him go for a moment. Butcher wiggled Hughie’s boxers down his thighs, trapping him like that, hard and panting, then he pulled off his own boxers, stretching fully over him. He took both their cocks in one wet hand and Hughie’s hand in the other, lacing their fingers together against the bed sheets. They were kissing and grinding, barely moving. All of Hughie’s heat and color pinned itself into the wet rub of their cocks and the almost grip Butcher had around them both. They could barely kiss anymore, panting wetly into each other other’s mouths. Hughie could feel it boiling at the base of his spine, simmering between them. Butcher pressed soft kisses on his lips, his jaw, his cheek, everywhere he could reach. Hughie’s hand squeezed Butcher’s, feeling himself rise. His other hand tangled with the hair at the nape of Butcher’s head, pulling him to one last kiss as he came.

Color burst along his eyes, a rich yellow crescendoed with white until all he could see, taste,  _ feel _ was color. And color was Butcher, who was rutting against him, winding up, and falling just the same, a strangled noise escaping him as Hughie kissed him. 

There was color and then there was the fading, the rich and soft purple edging their vision. Sleep and completion and comfort swirling between them. They wiped away their mess with a bedside napkin and settled into the bed with a good sigh. Hughie kicked off his boxers and tangled their ankles together. Maybe in the middle of the night they’d separate because they got too sweaty, maybe they wouldn’t. All Hughie felt was the warm wrap of Butcher around him and the resolution of color between them. 

They faced each other in the settling darkness. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say to Butcher, but he realized he didn’t have to say anything, not tonight. They would have the rest of color to say things. So they kissed each other goodnight and dreamt of brown and blue. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was meant to be my super edgy Boys fanfic and i STILL managed to be a fucking sap
> 
> anywhomst, ENJOY

**Author's Note:**

> BITCH IM BACK AND THIS TIME IM (MOSTLY) IN CANNON.


End file.
